To Return From Death
by KnightFury
Summary: Holmes may not know it just yet, but he is fast approaching the end of his hiatus. All he wants now is to be reunited with his Boswell and walk the beloved streets of his London, but he has his fears and doubts - London may have changed dramatically and Watson may not want to forgive him.
1. Home Thoughts From Abroad

**Home Thoughts From Abroad**

Oh to see England again... I have been away from home for far longer than I ever expected, much less intended. I miss London, the familiar hustle and bustle of the streets, and still ever more keenly I miss my dear friend Watson.

Time and again I have relived those moments at Reichenbach in my dreams and attempted something different. I have returned his desperate and heart-wrenching calls, I have revealed myself to him, I have not concealed myself at all... I am unsure whether my subconscious only wishes to remove my guilt, but every alternative has met with some form of tragedy. Never the less, it matters not. Still I miss my friend and regret leaving him to grieve for these three years. Perhaps one day I shall explain my reasons to him, if he ever forgives me.

The news of the death of my Boswell's wife has come as a terrible shock. My heart weeps for my dear, gentle friend who needs me now more than he ever has. I must return soon, but first Colonel Sebastian Moran must make a mistake. I have been waiting for one since I first went into hiding and there are moments, in my darkest hours, when I doubt that the wretched man ever will make one. How I wish that news of my Watson had not reached me, for no amount of wishing, hoping or longing can return me to his side. I must be patient.

For what feels like the hundredth time I have taken up my pen to write for my dearest - my only - friend. Even the opening line of 'My dear Watson' sounds trite. How can I even write it? How could I make the fellow see that he is still dear to me when I have abandoned him? I screw up the piece of parchment and throw it upon the dying fire. I shall write to Mycroft instead and tell him to let my friend of old know that I am alive and endeavouring to return to England. My brother knows all; he can explain. It was, after all, my brother who talked me into allowing my friend to continue to believe me to be dead in the first place.

I pace restlessly. My thoughts continuously running ahead of me, to board a steamship bound for England and return to my home. My very soul cries out for English tea and London's fog, smell and noise. But, above all else, I miss Watson.


	2. Homeward Bound

**Homeward Bound**

I am far from comfortable. The water of the English Channel has been rough since I boarded this miserable vessel and I am suffering a seasickness of the kind that I have not suffered in an age. It is not helped by the temperatures; the crossing is always frightfully cold at this time of year and I am not travelling first class. Perhaps I should be grateful that I could afford not to travel third class, however; that would mean hot, cramped and crowded conditions, with no privacy, paired with the noise of the engines. Surely it is better to freeze than to suffer that.

When I no longer feel as if I may disgrace myself by vomiting at any moment, I follow the advice that Watson would give to me and make my way out onto the deck. I sit down at the front of the vessel and try to relax. I am beginning to think that I might feel just as sick even if the water were calm, for I am in far too agitated a state to feel well, I fear. I have never known that a fellow could feel so many different and conflicting emotions! I am both excited and fearful to be returning to London, filled with delight and apprehension at the thought of seeing Watson again.

Will Watson be pleased to see me? Will he greet me with open arms and a cry of joy, or with anger or even hatred? I begin to run through his many possible reactions in my mind and attempt to find the correct words to say.

How I wish I had thought to write him a note to read! I do not trust my pride or my tongue. If my friend were to throw me out, I might say some dreadful things in the heat of the moment. On the other hand, should the fellow be forgiving and welcome me back as if nothing had happened, I doubt that I shall ever find it within myself to tell him how I have missed him. I am not known for my shows of affection.

I finally leave the vessel to board a train, still feeling horribly sick and confused. I shall somehow have to clear my head before I face my foe, or he may yet kill me after all of my precautions.

What am I to do first when I eventually reach London? To freshen up and make some form of plan is the obvious answer. To drink a good cup of English tea to settle my nerves is another, for my mind is a whirl of fears, doubts and anticipation.

This can only mean one thing. My first port of call shall have to be my only safe haven. I must return home to Baker Street.


	3. Where The Hearth Is

**Where The Hearth Is**

I arrive at Baker Street dressed as myself. Moran knows that I am still among the living; there is no need to attempt to remain concealed from him. Let the devil know that I have come home to face him at last!

I enter 221B and am met by a terrified Mrs. Hudson. She must take me to be a ghost, judging by the look upon her face. The woman is trembling and staring at me with wide, blue eyes as she attempts to say something. Her face is also dreadfully pale; as white as her pinafore.

A gentle smile does not reassure my housekeeper, so I gesture for her to calm herself as I approach her in a series of long strides. Before I am even fully aware of what I am doing, I have gathered her into my arms in an embrace which neither of us seem willing to part from. I find myself smiling as she whispers my name in a happy yet tearful manner while she rests her head at my chest. I feel like the Prodigal Son that has just been welcomed home by a loving and forgiving mother - I could almost cry with her. I do not deserve such a welcome.

With Mrs. Hudson finally calmed and reassured (and now that I am also feeling better), I enter the sitting room to find it just as I remembered (if I ignore the mourning black additions to the furnishings, the staleness of the tobacco scent and the lack of a fire in the grate, resulting in the room remaining chilled and giving it a neglected air). My housekeeper soon remedies the lack of a fire and I take to my armchair, wishing only that my dear friend Watson was seated across from me.

A soothing cup of tea later, I have a plan of action. I know - well, I am almost certain - where the good doctor will be. I shall find him and follow him to his home, for it would never do for me to arrive at the home that I know to be his only to find that he has moved. Grief affects each one of us differently and can cause any man to become uncharacteristically unreliable or irrational. He may have sold his home and practice and moved on simply because he found that it held too many memories that had become painful for him.

I observed when I entered the house that I was being watched by none other than Parker the garrotter. He himself does not worry me a jot, but I know why a fellow such as he would be watching the house only too well. I shall have to warn Mrs. Hudson before I leave - and I cannot possibly go out the front door either; especially not in disguise. I shall leave by way of my bedroom window and slip through the courtyard to the rear of the building and into the street further down. I shall be in disguise and should not even earn a glance from the lookout.

As I turn my steps in the direction of the inquest of Ronald Adaire, which I have little doubt that Watson will not be able to resist attending, my thoughts again stray to my dear friend and I have to concentrate more than I should upon my current role. I am dreadfully excited at the thought of our reunion being only minutes away and feel an incredible, almost irrepressible urge to straighten my legs and back in order to break into a run. What I shall say to my friend of old and what to expect I am still unable to determine, however, and that alone enables me to keep my pace slow and pensive while a slight tremor inexplicably takes to my hands and legs. I remind myself that I cannot recall the last occasion when I last properly slept and that I am most likely exhausted. Besides, it is all the better to give weight to my disguise as an elderly and frail book-collector, I tell myself.


	4. Watson

**Watson**

I set myself down on the cold stone steps, where a crowd has gathered outside of the court. I hardly notice the chill in the air; I have been in colder climates than this in the last three years. Never the less, I am still trembling slightly as I wait for my companion to step outside.

Watson does not even see me when he does emerge. He seems to be in a hurry to return to his home, for his eyes are on the cab that he has hailed and as a result he almost tramples me as he descends the steps upon which I sit. He notices me when he knocks a bundle of books from my hand and quickly apologises and returns them to me. It takes all of my powers to retain my delight at seeing him and to instead strike him with the weak yet furious blow of an old man insulted.

Kindly gentleman that my Boswell is, he gives no indication that he is angered or otherwise upset by my behaviour. He simply gives one final, hasty apology and takes to the cab. I hear him give his address and then I follow him there. Now for the difficult part.

The housemaid is utterly useless! Mrs. Hudson would never put up with her and would have had her removed from her team of servants in a trice. She has a quiet, dozy sort of voice, a sleepy-looking face and a countenance that suggests that she has no intention of paying attention to her work. I tell her that I would like to see Doctor Watson without delay and am left waiting on the doorstep! Not the best treatment for a frail and elderly man, is it? I step inside, with a hand at my heart and a faltering step, and close the door. If Watson is being watched, nobody will think it odd if my friend allows me to stay for it will appear that I am just another patient. Once inside I hastily follow the sound of voices.

Watson is annoyed. I can hear him telling the wretched maid that the times in which his practice is open are clearly displayed outside. He wishes to send me away! We shall soon see about that - I have come too far and waited too long to be told to make an appointment and return later. What to do? I could collapse upon the floor and am weary enough to do so quite easily, but that would cause my Boswell unnecessary concern and I have hurt him quite enough. No. I shall not trick my friend into welcoming me back. He shall react as he sees fit.

I enter Watson's consulting room in a flurry of anxiety and quickly take to the chair before his desk, at which he is sitting. I tell him that I felt some remorse, having treated him so poorly, and decided to follow him home when I heard him give his address. If I had hoped to give him an indication regarding my true identity I would be disappointed, but the poor fellow has believed me to be dead and gone for the last three years.

After telling my friend that I would part with some of my books if he wanted any (for a small price; my character is a shrewd old fellow) by way of an apology, I point out to the chap that his bookshelf is rather untidy, for there are more gaps than books upon it, and take the opportunity to hastily stand to my full height and unmask myself. As he begins to turn back I smile. I cannot resist commanding his full attention.

"Watson, would you mind if I smoke a cigarette in your consulting room?"

He does indeed completely turn to face me in one sharp movement. Then he stiffens and stares back at me in amazement. I feel tears of unease prick my eyes; if he is going to send me away with a flea in my ear, it will come now. But Watson simply continues to stare. He does not look as frightened as Mrs. Hudson did, he simply looks baffled, but I felt so much better after embracing my housekeeper that it might help us both and set us on the right footing if I give my biographer the same treatment. Somewhat timidly, I smile and open my arms to my old friend in a silent invitation for him to come to me. Perhaps that only adds to his shock, for he chooses that moment to sag and drop to the floor in a faint.

As I watch my old friend fall as if time has slowed to a crawl, I know a moment of panic. It is not in Watson's habit to faint and I fear for him terribly as I begin to see just how much anguish and strain my supposed death has caused the dear fellow. With trembling hands I quickly unfasten his shirtsleeves to check his pulse before returning him to his chair. This done, I then loosen his tie to unfasten his collar before checking him for fever and dosing him with brandy from my flask.

I apologise quietly as my Boswell revives. I should have realised that my sudden return from the watery grave that he took me to be in would have given him a terrible shock. I should have realised that a man like my Watson, with his tender and kind heart, would not have ceased to grieve the moment that he was away from the dreadful place in which he left me any more than I had ceased to miss him in these last three years.

Still I remain nervous. Had I fainted as a result of such a horrible trick, I would be angry with the man responsible. I expect my friend of old to fly into a fit of temper at any moment and to throw me out, for it would be no more than I deserve. I keep my tone quiet, still feeling closer to tears than I ever remember being.

Suddenly Watson's face lights up with a delighted smile and relief floods me. I am forgiven! It is more than I deserve, which makes the sensation of relief all the more delicious.

Slowly I calm myself as my friend of old urges me to sit down and tell all, which I do. I tell too much, all at once too overcome with relief to weigh my words with necessary care. Why did I have to mention Mycroft's help? Even as the words are leaving my lips I realise my mistake and almost choke on something that is midway between a nervous laugh and a sob.

As is my Boswell's wont, he reacts not with resentment but with empathy and a sympathetic nod. Of course I needed money in order to live! However, he is hurt. I can see that in his stance and his expressive face.

"I would like to think that I am as trustworthy as your brother,"

These words he utters when my treacherous tongue adds insult to injury by saying that I often took up my pen to write to him, which is the truth, but that I always thought better of it because he might have allowed his emotion to betray me, which is not even half the truth. Yes, he may have wrote back to me and given away my position, but his reply would not have found me anyway because I would have been gone from there already! No. My pride simply forbids me from admitting that I was just too cowardly to tell him that I was alive, regretful and missing him, as doing so would have meant bearing my very soul to him and handing him my heart to treat well or ill. Oh, how I deserve for him to treat me ill! Why does he still not hate me?

"Of course you are!" I assure him with no small amount of frustrated vehemence. Then I smile. Here is a way to undo some of the shameful hurt that I have inflicted upon him so needlessly with my confounded thoughtless pride. "But you have a kinder heart."

I suddenly realise that I am indeed exhausted. Just talking to Watson is becoming too much, despite the fact that I have wanted little else for three long years. I sit myself upon his couch, which is made of leather (so that its surface can easily be kept clean) and is ready and waiting for a patient, complete with woolen rug and pillow. I ask if the fellow would mind if I make use of this makeshift bed for a few hours, all thought of food pushed from my mind as the more pressing need for sleep displaces it. And again my pride takes charge of my easily lead tongue. I tell him that the crossing was rough, that I was filled with anticipation in regard to my old enemy Moran, to say nothing of seeing London again... and then, as if as an afterthought, I gesture toward my Boswell and add that I was also looking forward to seeing him again. Why? Why can I not just tell him that he was missed?

All the same, the fellow seems to know what it is that I really wish to say. He smiles. He then urges me to make use of his bedroom, but I could never do that. I am in need of a bath, for one thing, and I might be harbouring bedbugs or other unwelcome guests. I have been in some rather unpleasant places of late. Besides, I want to know that Watson is close at hand - I want to awake and see him near, for I might well be disorientated and fearful when I do wake. With a grateful sigh I lie back, pulling the rug over me in a somewhat haphazard manner as I do so, and slip almost immediately into slumber.


	5. The Empty House

**The Empty House**

When I awake, I find that I have been made comfortable by my kindly Boswell. My shoes have been removed from my feet and I have more rugs covering me than I did when I took to this couch. The curtains have been drawn, the gas turned down low and I am warmer than I have been in what seems an age.

I sit up quickly - a little too quickly for a man that has not always had enough time for luxuries such as nourishment and sleep - and am quickly reassured by my friend of old.

"It is all right Holmes. You are quite safe here."

I nod and rub at my forehead as I try not to yawn. "What time is it?"

The fellow comes to my side and rests a hand upon my shoulder. "Time for dinner," he informs me firmly.

Yes, of course it is. Watson is very fond of his meals. I smile at him and admit that I am indeed hungry. In actual fact I am famished but, having been forced to eat often very meagre rations for such a long time, I am not sure quite how much I could manage. At least I am not in the habit of eating much anyway, so I am not going to worry him as much as I might if I only find enough appetite for very little.

I try to at least eat a little of everything at dinner, but my nerves are still on edge. Though I feel better now that I have been reunited with my dear Watson, there is still a murderer at large who means to kill me and we have a plan to put in motion.

"When you like, where you like," were my Boswell's words when he was asked whether he would come with me earlier. How I have missed his loyalty! I have not missed his concern quite so much (he is watching me pick at the food on my plate with an expression that tells me that he wishes that I would eat properly) but I shall put up with that.

Despite my earlier impatience to see my old friend again, I have formulated a trap that should ensnare Moran. I send a message to Lestrade, who is working the Adaire case (and who, by all accounts - or at least Watson's, has been missing me) and then take my biographer off into the night as if it has not been three years since we last shared an adventure.

I take my Boswell by the hand and eagerly guide (nay, drag) him inside an empty house that I have selected as providing a perfect view for the drama which is about to unfold.

The stairs and floorboards creak as we take our positions, there is nowhere for my companion to sit (I should have thought about that and warned him; perhaps he would have preferred to have stayed at home) and it is terribly cold. I take Watson's mind off of the discomfort that he must be feeling by directing his attention to the street that we are facing and the lit window opposite the one that he is standing at. Of course he thinks the wax bust of me marvelous, though he fails to understand its importance. I simply tell him that I wish to be believed to still be at home, while I am in fact elsewhere.

It is not long before I am myself becoming uncomfortable in this cold room, and I am used to remaining on my feet for extended periods and I have grown accustomed to being cold. I should like to pace in order to warm myself, albeit only slightly, and stretch my legs, but it might be wiser to remain still. I am not quite sure what Moran might do or where he might be.

"Holmes!"

I am immediately alert. The excited whisper from my Boswell has arrested my interest at once, but I am to be disappointed; he has only noticed some members of the official police. I snort and drum my fingers impatiently. The bunglers may think themselves inconspicuous, but any criminal can clearly see them for what they are at a glance. Well, at least I now know that Lestrade has received my message.

Time is dragging on and the urge to move is becoming almost impossible to bear when a creak sounds from a stair. Watson and I freeze for a moment and then hasten to conceal ourselves in the darkness. Did we leave the front door ajar and arouse the interest of a passing policeman? I cannot distinctly remember shutting the door. Did my Boswell enter behind me? Did he shut the door?

The door opens and a man enters the room. Without a moment's hesitation he makes his way to the very window from which my friend and I had been keeping our watch just moments before.

A gun is assembled and then pointed at the wax bust. I wait until it has been fired and then leap at the assassin with a cry. Now I shall have my revenge for the three years of misery that he has forced us both to endure!

The struggle is embarrassing! I had thought that Moran and I would have been more evenly matched, but I am becoming exhausted and I all but permit him to strangle me. Were Watson not here I am quite sure that he would have succeeded in doing so, for I cannot seem to manage to escape his squeezing clutches.

There is a sudden, confusing clamour of noises and then Lestrade and his men are present. I quickly bring my coughing under control, though my throat remains horribly sore, and congratulate the inspector for catching his man. I then get a little... excited and shout at Moran, glad as I am to finally have him caught. I am not fully aware of what I am saying, so relieved and angry am I, and Watson's placating hand only causes me to turn a snarl in his direction. How dare he attempt to pacify me now! Does he not realise that at least half of this vent is made on his behalf? This murderer has forced me to do something that should never be done and so he deserves worse than I could ever inflict upon him.

Ha! Now our criminal wishes to know what it is that he is being charged with. Perhaps he believes that attempting to murder me - twice - is pardonable (though, judging by the reaction of the public at Watson's announcement that I had died, I imagine him to be sorely mistaken) and that he shall get away with that. Either way, it matters not a jot.

Lestrade looks baffled when I inform him that he has caught the murderer of Adaire and dismiss the attempt on my life as unimportant. I explain all readily enough and watch as Moran is taken away. Thank God! Lestrade then shakes me warmly by the hand and I realise with a sensation that I cannot quite place that it is me that he has missed and not so much my methods. I am not very sure of myself or how to react and so I hand over to Watson while I attempt to collect myself.

"Well," Watson says after a long and uncomfortable silence, when we are finally alone. "What happens now?"

I cannot bring myself to meet his gaze. Our silences were never uncomfortable before now; there had never been a time when we knew not what to say or how to say it. Before my hiatus we simply had nothing to say because we knew one another so well and there had been no cause for idle talk. Will I ever right the terrible wrong that was done to my dear friend?

"Are you all right?" the doctor's hand is resting at my shoulder in an instant. "Holmes?"

I nod and keep myself from pulling away from him. Though I know exactly what my old friend has said, I ask him to repeat in order to appear to have only been lost in thought. Not that I ever am.

"Now?" I smile at him. "Now, if you have nothing better to do, you are welcome to come -" No! Baker Street is not Watson's home "- come back with me to Baker Street for a nice, warming drink." That is as far forward as I dare to look for now. But, dare I think, the fellow must surely be as lonely as I am. Perhaps he might move back in with me if I make him welcome and give him some time.


	6. Torment and Regret

**Torment and Regret**

Watson is in obvious discomfort as we descend the stairs. As is his wont, he remains silent, not giving so much as a grunt of complaint, but it is clear - despite the manner in which he tries not to limp - that his old wounds are hurting him. As I take his arm, having stepped into the street, I discover that he is shivering as well.

"We shall take a cab home," I tell my friend. "I hope you do not mind old fellow, but I am somewhat weary and chilled."

His hand squeezes my arm and he immediately moves closer to my side. I recall that voicing my own discomforts always tended to receive a much better reaction than informing my Boswell that I was aware of his ever did. I am glad that that does not seem to have changed or else I would not know what to do.

As I hail a cab and allow Watson to get in ahead of me a light but chilling drizzle begins to fall. I am grateful for the rugs that the cabby supplies.

"Are you all right?" my old friend asks with no small amount of concern, despite the fact that he is still shivering, as I cover us both with the rugs provided.

I sniff quietly and address him with a smile in the darkness. "There is nothing wrong that a hot bath and glass of port cannot put right," I assure him. "But how are you?"

He raises his eyebrows at me in surprise. "I am fine! I have not been tirelessly touring the continent for three years, after all. You look much thinner than I ever remember seeing you and you do seem very tired."

I do hope that he does not intend to examine me; I do not wish to row with him tonight. No, I need not fear; my Boswell has neglected to bring his bag so a dispute between us is unlikely to take place this night. That does not mean that it may not happen tomorrow, however.

We travel in silence for a time, still not as comfortably as we had before my hiatus. Perhaps Watson is simply endeavouring to keep from expressing the pain that he is in; I can see that he is tense. There was a time when I would have offered the fellow what comfort I could, but he does not seem to wish for me to know that anything is wrong at all. That, of course, complicates matters.

Naturally, my Boswell ensures that I take my bath with enough time allowed for me to dry myself and, despite the pleasure that the warming water brings, I waste no time. I am not sure whether my friend intends to stay the night or not and I am not quite sure how to ask him. Anyway, if he is to return to his practice I hardly intend to waste any time. I scramble from the bath the moment that I am clean and dress without sparing a moment to dry myself; instead wrapping a towel about me to keep the shivers, which are already beginning in this chilly bathroom, at bay as I return to the sitting room.

Watson is sitting in his chair with a half-finishef glass of port in his hand, raised midway to his lips, as he gazes sleepily into the fire. Poor old fellow! He looks as weary as I feel. I silence a yawn and take to my own chair, opposite his.

"Thank you for coming back."

The words are little more than a sleepy mumble, but they arrest my attention at once. I smile at my friend of old.

"I only wish that I could have done so sooner," I confess quietly. "I never intended to be gone for so long."

"Mm."

Is that all that the fellow has to say? I lean forward in my chair and see at once that he has fallen asleep, his port glass resting somewhat precariously at the arm of his chair while his head rests propped against his uninjured shoulder. I act quickly, first taking the unfinished glass from his fingers and then carrying him to the settee, covering him first with his coat and then some warm rugs from the airing cupboard.

With my Boswell settled, I take the time to tend to myself. I first have a warming drink of my own and ensure that the fire is not about to go out and then I dry my dripping hair. I really do not wish to have my friend fussing over me tomorrow, however much the thought of him staying here might appeal to me; I want Watson the companion, not Watson the doctor.

Once I am dry and warmed I take to my bed, leaving my bedroom door ajar. I still wish to know that Watson is near now that I have returned and know not how I shall sleep when he is absent. The clawing loneliness that I felt during my hiatus has not completely abated even now.

I settle back and stare up at the ceiling. Tomorrow I must talk to Watson about moving back into his old room. He must surely need my company as much as I need his? With the decision made I close my eyes and permit myself to relax.

The sound of the Reichenbach Falls is almost deafening and the spray that is thrown up by the water as it hits the bottom truly is like the smoke rising from a burning house, just as Watson said. Even as I think of him, I see the fellow rush into view. He is clearly winded, having hastened back to me as soon as he knew that the note that requested him to return to the inn was a ruse, and he is limping.

Anxiously, the fellow approaches the edge, much too close for my liking, and calls for me. I almost call back but stop myself. It would be best, for the time being, if the world believes me to be dead. All the same, tears of regret and anguish stab at my eyes as my Boswell breaks down. I never knew that anyone could love me, of all people, like that and this revelation hurts me far more than the separation will, I am sure.

It takes all of my resolve to remain hidden. Were Watson now alone in the world, I am sure that I could not carry this decision through, but he has his dear and loving wife; he shall be all right. As he moves away I realise, as one often does in dreams, that Mary will be dead before I can return. It is this knowledge that breaks me and I awake gasping for breath while tears stream down my face.

"Holmes?" Watson calls sleepily from his place on the settee when I begin to cough. "Are you all right?"

Damn! I had forgotten that my friend was in the next room - not that I could have controlled my reactions while I slept and my guard was down at any rate.

I clear my throat before giving a response. "Yes Watson. I just need some water; give me a moment."

By the time that I have made my way down to the kitchen, filled a glass with drinking water and returned to my bedroom my hands are steady. I have also washed my face at the kitchen sink so that there is no sign of the emotional state that I was in when I awoke. Watson is a doctor, and a sympathetic one at that, but I would not like to talk to him about this. I might break down again and that would never do. Besides, such a show of emotion from me is bound to unnerve and upset him.

To reassure my friend I return to the sitting room, where I find him quite wakeful and anxiously awaiting my return. He frowns at me and hands me his handkerchief.

"You are catching a cold I fear," he remarks with concern as I take the cloth gratefully and quietly blow my nose. "And no wonder if you will insist on wandering the house without a dressing gown or slippers. My God Holmes! How ever did you survive the past three years without catching pneumonia?"

I simply shrug and sip at the water in my hand while he wraps me in one of the rugs. I could assure him that I am most certainly not unwell, but then I would have to tell him of the nightmare. I would prefer for the fellow to draw his own conclusion, I suppose.

"I could simply have choked in my sleep," I remind my friend at length. "I could have become entangled in my bedcovers, rested my throat against my arms or hands..."

He frowns back at me. "Hum, and is that what happened, or are you only trying to put me off? Further more, how is your throat? I take it that it is hurting you after Moran attempted to strangle you. Perhaps I should take a look at it."

In an instant the gas has been turned up and my friend is indeed examining my throat for signs of damage and the rest of me for signs of illness. At last he seems satisfied.

"There is some bruising to your throat left by that damned Moran, but you do seem to be well otherwise," he says with obvious relief. "If there is anything else amiss, it surely cannot be more than a slight chill that you are catching."

I smile at him and assure him that I do feel quite all right.

"All the same, you should rest for a day or two," the chap informs me. "I would not like for you to become ill old fellow - I know that you would not send for me if you did."

I shrug and finish the water. It does help my throat somewhat. "You have patients that take priority."

Watson shakes his head and touches my arm briefly. "You are my friend. If you need me you should send for me."

I close my eyes and nod, unable to trust my own response. For some reason I still feel somewhat emotional. It is inexplicable! And yet... Perhaps it can be attributed to relief; it is not unheard of for tensions to catch up on a fellow when the danger has passed. It is, however, almost unheard of for me to react in such a manner.

"Are you sure that you are all right?" my Boswell asks of me. "Your eyes seem a little too bright."

I permit myself a cavernous yawn, which I cover with my arm, and blink back at him. "Sleepy," I mumble as my eyelids slowly sag and half-close.

"Yes, it is late. I shall have to rise early tomorrow as well; the influenza season is not quite over yet."

Then I shall have to rise early as well. I am about to return to bed when I remember my violin and decide that we both might sleep better for a few soothing notes. As I raise my sorely missed instrument to my chin I hear my companion give a quiet sigh of contentment and settle himself to listen.

By the time I have finished my first piece, the fellow is snoring quietly. Still I continue, for my Boswell may be soothed and slumbering peacefully but I am not yet ready to face my bed.

Before I am midway through the third piece Watson has curled up on his side and ceased to snore. Good! If memory serves me, he does not always snore and so that would most likely be a sign that something was amiss. I may not be a doctor but I am observant and I know my dear friend.

Having ended the music with a flourish I ensure that my Boswell is warm and comfortable before stoking the fire once more and turning down the gas. I then get myself another glass of water and return to my bed, safe in the knowledge that I shall undoubtedly awake very early tomorrow.


	7. The Storm Breaks

**The Storm Breaks**

I am pulled from a pleasant dream, which I only half-remember, by the demands of my irksome body. It may be a mere appendix to my brain, but there are times when it screams too loudly for even me to ignore. Damn! I must have been badly in need of sleep, for usually I would have been disturbed long before now. Where am I and where is the washroom?

I realise with some gratitude that I am in my own room at Baker Street and that I am not going to have to search for the facilities (it is not always easy to recall such things as the floorplan of a place to mind when a fellow's brain is still befuddled with sleep - especially if he has only moved in late the night before and not thought to seek out more than his bed) as I have on countless mornings these past three years. With as much haste as I dare I disentangle myself from my bed and hasten in the direction of the little washroom which is situated behind a discreet door in the sitting room.

"Good morning Holmes."

How I keep myself from jumping I am not quite sure, but I am certainly glad of it. I am not usually foolish enough to drink so much before I sleep and this resulting discomfort is almost unbearable! I somehow keep still and stand straight as I respond; Watson does not need to know how I am feeling at this moment. I maintain my usual calm demeanor as I return the fellow's greeting with a tight smile. I then excuse myself as quickly as politeness will allow.

It is while I am washing my hands that I recall that I had wanted to awake before Watson left for his confounded practice. I rush back through to the sitting room and join the fellow at the breakfast table.

"You are up early," my friend remarks. "Is that a new habit or were you unable to sleep?"

I shrug and conceal a yawn. I may have wanted to awake early, but I still feel in need of sleep. I cannot recall the last morning on which I could have remained in my bed until noon had I wanted.

"How is your throat?" is the next question. "I noticed that you were drinking rather a lot of water last night; it must have been troubling you terribly."

I nod and pull my dressing gown closer to me with a shiver. Weariness often causes me to feel chilly.

"Are you sure that you have not caught a cold?"

Oh Watson! I slam my eyes shut and grind my teeth. "I am quite all right," I assure him brusquely. "You did check me for signs of illness last night, if you recall."

He nods and tries not to yawn. "Sorry Holmes. You simply do not seem to be yourself. You only ever drink water when you are feeling particularly unwell, for one thing..."

"My throat was sore from being strangled; I believe that that is quite normal. Really Watson! Do not fret so."

He frowns back at me. "I am not fretting! It does not take a doctor to see that you are weary and shivering."

No, it does not. I would notice immediately if even a complete stranger was feeling as weary and cold as I currently am.

The fellow touches my hand gently and frowns. "You are freezing! I really think that you should go back to bed. Is there anything that you need?"

More than anything, I want companionship; I have been intolerably lonely these past three years. I shake my head and attempt to order my thoughts, for I desperately want to talk to the fellow about moving back in with me now, so that he has ample opportunity to consider it in his own time.

"Are you quite sure that you are all right?" my friend asks of me yet again, with still more concern, as I begin to caress the tablecloth as if I were stroking a cat in my effort to calm myself.

I nod and force myself to meet his gaze. "I have been dreadfully lonely, these past three years..." I begin awkwardly, as I attempt to voice my proposition. It is not in my habit to prevaricate and it frustrates and angers me, but I simply cannot find the appropriate words to say.

"Oh God!" he squeezes my hand gently. "All right old fellow, I understand. I must say that it surprises me that you should have even thought to find company in such a manner, but it is quite normal..."

I give a start and stare back at him. "What the deuce are you talking about?"

He raises his eyebrows. "I thought that you were trying to explain to me why you are feeling unwell. You gave me the impression that you were trying to make a confession of some kind."

"Are you insane?" I shout at him. "What do you think I might have been doing, aside from trying to keep out of sight of Moriarty's vengeful companion? No! Do not answer that. I know what you were thinking! You doctors are all the same!"

I should not have said that. I hastily grip his arm and apologise as he attempts to stand.

"Forgive me old fellow. You know how I can be when I have not slept peacefully."

He frowns at me for a long moment. "Then go and do so now."

It can wait. "Please, just listen!" I shout at him as I run my hands through my far from tidy hair in my frustration.

"I haven't the time Holmes. I have to get back to my practice."

As he shrugs on his coat I throw caution to the wind. "I think that it is ridiculous that we are living rather lonely lives when we both know that we are perfectly compatible," I all but shout at him, so anxious am I to make myself understood.

Watson freezes and stares back at me for a long moment. "You are right when you say that you are a selfish wretch," he informs me in the dangerously calm tone which he uses when he is about to fly into a fit of temper. And now the storm breaks. "How dare you Holmes! You left me to grieve for you for three damned years, in which time I lost my dear wife and received very little support, and now you turn up and just expect everything to just go back to the way that it was! I hope you were lonely - I hope that you were bloody miserable! - because I certainly have been!"

And with that he is limping away and has vanished in a series of slamming doors, leaving me to stare after him with stinging eyes. What did I say to upset him so? All that I said was that I have been lonely and know that he must be as well! Why did he react in such a manner?

With a groan I massage my suddenly throbbing forehead before bringing it down to rest in my hands with a strangled sob. Everything has gone wrong! After all my effort to return quickly, all the fretting that I have done... A sob of despair escapes my painful throat. It was all for nothing! It would have been better if I truly had gone over the Reichenbach Falls; at least then my only friend would still have had faith in me.

* * *

_This is just a quick acknowledgement to all of the guests for their kind and encouraging reviews. I have intended to do this for at least two chapters but, as I am in the habit of responding by personal message, I have continuously forgotten - I apologise for my tardiness. In any case, thank you all very much! I hope that you continue to enjoy the story._


	8. Seeking Refuge

**Seeking Refuge**

I awake with a sudden jerk and force myself into an upright position, causing the rug that I have been covered with to slip to the floor from off my shoulders. I know not how long I have been sitting here at the dining table with my head resting on my folded arms, but I now have an ache in my neck and between my shoulder blades to add to my many discomforts. I sniff and rub at my eyes, removing the remnants of my drying tears with the back of my hand as I shiver with cold.

The memories of what took place early this morning return with such force that, for a moment, I feel as if I might be sick. I do all that I can to calm myself; it would never do for me to vomit in the sitting room. Still my head continues to pain me terribly even when the nausea has abated and I groan and cradle it in my hands.

I have no doubt that I have lost my only friend. I must have done! I have never before seen him so angry in all the time that I have known him and would never have believed him capable of turning such fury upon me.

I stand shakily and begin to pace. It is then that my eye falls upon my locked desk drawer. I open it and pull out the little box that houses my cocaine and morphine, holding it close to my chest as I contemplate using it.

What harm could it do? Watson is gone - even if he found out that I had immediately turned to the substances for comfort he would most assuredly not care. The words 'I hope you were lonely, I hope you were bloody miserable!' are continuously repeating themselves in my brain, firmly cementing themselves in. I have lost him. With a sharp pang of morose loneliness I open the box and measure my usual seven per cent solution of cocaine.

For what seems a brief moment, my problems fade into insignificance and all is bliss. Nothing matters. I play something on my violin that sounds glorious and then I settle myself, cross legged, on the hearth rug and watch the colourful flames dance in the grate.

As the euphoria fades all too quickly, so the morose emotions return. They are worse than they were before. I shiver miserably, suddenly finding that I am feeling dreadfully chilled, and sneeze.

"It sounds as if you've caught a cold," Mrs. Hudson remarks as she comes in. "It's little wonder. Sleeping at the breakfast table in the draught like that! You were shivering in your sleep, you know."

Was I really? Well, it is of no import. I sniff quietly and warm my hands before the fire.

With a sigh my housekeeper drapes the rug that I left on the floor about my shoulders once more. "You should take better care. How ever did you manage alone for three years?"

I close my eyes hastily, feeling them prickle with tears yet again. I kept myself going with thoughts of home and those who mattered to me. Now I find myself even more alone than I was while I was away!

"Are you going to speak to me?"

I clear my constricting and painful throat with difficulty and lick my dry lips. "I would only drive you away too."

She snorts. "What nonsense! I come with the house Mr. Holmes. Here, have some tea."

I thank her gratefully and swallow the hot drink that she presses into my slightly-trembling hands without a pause. It does banish some of the chills.

"As for Doctor Watson," she continues with severity. "I am sure I don't know what you could have said or done to upset him so and no more do I wish to know. But he is a good man and I'm sure that he will forgive you when he is ready. He just needs some time, Mr. Holmes; he has had a dreadful time of it lately."

I nod and look away. I wanted to return home to him so that he would not be alone! I would have done so in an instant would it not have put us both in mortal danger. What good would that have done? Supposing I had been killed before I even reached London? That would most surely have hurt my Boswell more than my staying away. Had it been Watson who was killed... I shiver violently at the thought. That does not bear thinking about.

"You are cold! Sit in your chair and allow me to tend to the fire sir. You have not even had a bite to eat yet, have you?"

I wave her away. "I am not hungry."

"You'll fade away at this rate! Come now Mr. Holmes, you should eat something. It will do you good."

Cocaine always diminishes the appetite and my current emotional state leaves no room for food in any case. I light a cigarette and eye my morocco box as I consider taking another, stronger dosage. Seven per cent is a very weak solution, after all.

Mrs. Hudson throws up her hands. "Call me if you want anything."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson," I hand her the teacup and dismiss her none too gently. I am feeling ill and miserable now that the cocaine is wearing off and I want to take more. I have no reason not to.

I resist the temptation for a moment or two. After Watson's reaction to the drug I do not like to take it in company and so I shall have to administer it quickly lest Mrs. Hudson returns too soon. The resulting euphoria envelops me and I return to chuckling at the fire.


	9. Paying the Price

**Paying the Price**

I have been very stupid. I always take no more than a single dosage of a seven per cent solution of cocaine for good reason. Why ever did I decide that I wanted more? Oh yes. Watson. I am abandoned. Alone. My actions matter not.

I groan and attempt to move. I cannot. My limbs are unwilling to respond and I am cold and shivering violently. Perhaps my companion was right when he said that I seem to be ailing because I feel quite dreadful now. My nose is dripping, I want to sneeze and my head is paining me terribly. Have I caught influenza? Watson would know.

The thought of my Boswell only causes me to feel worse. I curl myself into a ball upon the hearth rug, trying in vain to comfort my painfully cramping stomach, and screw my eyes tightly shut.

I know not how long I have lain here before Mrs. Hudson finds me in my prone position. She begins to cry when she receives no response from me and shouts rather a lot. Strange. I cannot understand very much of what is being said. I probably should find that frightening but I feel somewhat separated from reality, as if I am simply observing a play.

I become vaguely aware of uneven footsteps hurrying upstairs. Did I lock the sitting room door? The cold draught which assails me informs me that I did not, as does the sound of heavy feet limping inside. Damn! It would never do for a client to see me like this. Come Holmes! On your feet you lazy imbecile!

The feet approach slowly and stop short in front of me and I force my eyes, which I do not remember closing, to open and gaze up at the owner of them. Watson is frowning back at me with a very angry expression and I suddenly feel very small and vulnerable.

The fellow crouches at my side and takes my pulse with icy fingers. "What was it today?" he asks flatly. "Cocaine or morphine?"

That tone in itself is enough to make me cringe.

"Holmes? Can you answer me?"

"Cocaine."

His frown darkens but he nods. "How much?"

"Don't know."

He stares back at me, the colour draining from his face. "What do you mean you don't know? My God Holmes!"

Please Watson, do not shout at me. My stomach cramps painfully and I clutch at it with a moan as I try not to breathe.

With a shake of his head the fellow fetches some towels in from the washroom and spreads them beneath and before my head.

Thank you Watson, but I am not about to be sick just as long as you are gentle with me.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, in a tone that suggests that he is trying to sound sympathetic.

"Sorry."

He closes his eyes and forces a sigh through his teeth. "Yes, I expect that you are."

"Very sorry."

"That is not what I was asking."

I groan and grit my teeth against another painful stomach cramp.

"I take it that you are feeling sick?"

"Stomach ache." Somehow that makes it sound much more trivial than it feels. I can barely breathe for the pain!

He rests a hand at my forehead. It is terribly cold and provides my wretched nose with all the stimulation that it could possibly need. The whole length of my body jerks with the force of the resulting sternutation and I grind my teeth to avoid crying out.

"Bless you," the doctor wipes my running nose and pats my shoulder. "Have you caught a cold, or is this just another reaction to the cocaine?"

I shrug with a grimace.

"Were you feeling unwell before you took the cocaine?"

"I am not sure."

The doctor pinches the bridge of his nose. "Why the deuce do you do these things?"

I shrug with another grimace of pain. "It seemed to be a good idea... at the time."

He nods and closes his eyes, causing a single tear to make its escape down his face.

"Are you all right Watson?"

His eyes snap open and he frowns at me before scrubbing a hand across his eyes. "That is rather an odd question for you to ask me under the present circumstances, do you not think?"

"Perhaps," another painful cramp seizes me and it takes all of my self-control not to cry out. Think of something else Holmes! "I thought that you were needed at your practice..."

"Mrs. Hudson sent for me because you had collapsed and she was unable to rouse you. I feared the worst!"

I close my eyes with a grimace as he raises his voice. "I was never in any danger. I simply feel ill."

"Hum, yes. I should think that you do feel ill. Mrs. Hudson informed me that you had had nothing to eat and that she had noticed that you were shivering and sneezing. I feared that you had contracted influenza or something even more dangerous and debilitating," he growls, his voice shaking with intense anger. "As for there being no danger Holmes, cocaine is very dangerous - especially if you do not know how much you are taking! How could you be so stupid?"

Another groan escapes me but I cannot give an answer. I should have known that my dear friend would not abandon me and the very idea seems ridiculous now.

I feel his hand touch my shoulder lightly as he moves closer. "Mrs. Hudson seemed to be under the impression that you believed me to be gone for good. Is this true?"

I lick my dry lips and attempt to screw my eyes closed even tighter. "I have never seen you so angry."

"I was upset Holmes, but I did not mean to react like that. Were I not so tired and feeling so irritable I would not have done so. I do apologise old fellow."

I nod but say nothing. I am beginning to feel quite sick now and I want to remain still and quiet.

"I suppose I should have realised that you would do something like this," the fellow mumbles. "I did say some truly unforgivable things."

I groan and clamp my mouth shut as my paining stomach lurches. Ugh! Not now! Watson is in the way! "Move!"

My friend simply stares back at me blankly. Perhaps he cannot understand what I am attempting to say without opening my mouth.

Hastily I clutch at my stomach with one hand while I press the other over my trembling lips as a warning. Move Watson! Now!

"Oh. All right Holmes. It is all right."

I suppose that I should be proud of myself for somehow waiting until my friend is out of harm's way, but I am too wretchedly miserable and this is far too humiliating. It would be quite bad enough had I managed to run into the washroom and at least then my Boswell would not have been forced to watch me with that damned look of pity on his face!

"Are you all right now?"

"Wonderful."

"Can you sit up to rinse your mouth if I help you? I am sure that you would not like to be left with that unpleasant taste in your mouth."

I am not sure. I do feel frightfully odd. "Yes."

"All right then. Give me a moment old fellow."

Almost before I am aware of it, I am being lifted very gently by the shoulder so that my head is hanging rather limply over a bowl. Watson then assists me first in rinsing my mouth and then drinking some water.

"That is better, I am sure. You must be terribly thirsty!"

I nod with a grimace and am immediately plied with more. I wonder whether I should tell him that I have had enough; I might well have to drink, but I am not quite sure what I shall do when I have finished with all of this water if I am still unable to move. That would undoubtedly be horribly embarrassing!

"Do you still feel sick?" Watson asks as he washes the cheek that I was lying on with his handkerchief, having wetted it with a splash of water.

"No." I do feel faint though. My muscles feel weak as well, as if I have exerted myself more than is wise, and I want to sleep. Perhaps I need some morphine, but I dare not ask my Boswell to administer some and I very much doubt that I could manage it.

He props me against the settee with the bowl close to hand, should I change my mind, and quickly replaces the soiled towels with clean ones. Then I am returned to my previous position, with my friend gently tending to me. If he is trying to make me feel guilty he is most certainly succeeding!


	10. Fatigue, Anguish and Pain

**Fatigue, Anguish and Pain**

_One of the least pleasant effects of cocaine now, I am afraid. I apologise in advance. To be truthful, I am not at all sure of this chapter._

I jerk awake, still being chased by the giant adder of my dream, and attempt to bring my racing heart and breathing under control as I realise that the vision, though vivid, was not real.

Every last part of me is aching, paining and protesting. My head, my eyes, my jaw, my arms, legs... I have more discomforts than I could possibly catalogue. Should I attempt to stretch or remain still? Would it make a jot of difference? Even my hair and fingernails seem to hurt, so most probably not. I very much doubt that I have been in slumber for long.

Whilst trying not to move, I study my surroundings to the best of my ability, doing my utmost to forget that dream. By the fading daylight and the glow of the fire I can see that I have been moved to the settee. Watson is stretched out in his armchair and I can dimly see that the poor fellow's face is streaked with tears and creased with worry. What have I done to him?

Further inspection of my surroundings informs me that there is a bucket on the floor, close to my head, I have been covered with rugs and there is a pitcher of water on the coffee table. Oh. Just the sight of that pitcher is enough to send me into a state of near-panic. Whether it is due to the horribly vivid nightmare or the amount of water that I have been plied with I am not sure, but I have to move myself somehow or else Mrs. Hudson is going to be rather angry with me.

Carefully, I force myself into an upright position. I must not move too quickly or else I might faint. That, in my current condition, would no doubt be disastrous. Just keep calm Holmes, for Heaven's sake! You can wait. Slowly... Gently... Oh God! This is simply not normal; my bladder does not feel as if it is full in the slightest and yet I feel as if I am moments away from making a frightful mess on the floor! What is happening to me?

I had not realised that I had made a sound, but I have somehow alerted Watson. The fellow chooses the most inconvenient moments to be damned observant.

"What is wrong Holmes?" he asks as he approaches me. "I can see that you are in distress."

I groan and gesture in the direction of the washroom with a less than steady hand. I cannot wait! I can feel my wretched body rebelling.

"I am going to urinate!" That was nice... I could have at least attempted to remain polite.

"Do not panic," he advises me in an annoyingly calm tone. "If you keep calm it will be easier to control yourself. Now, lean on me. Yes, that is it. The lavatory is only a few steps away; you will be all right."

I heed his advice to the best of my ability but I am too desperate to remain calm. I am shaking with effort as much as urgency and still I can feel myself losing control.

"Watson..."

"Nearly there Holmes. Nearly there. You are doing very well."

No I am not. I am about to disappoint him terribly! With a groan I lose the battle with my wretched body, slamming my eyes shut so as not to witness the look on my Boswell's face. If there is one thing worse than humiliation, it is receiving sympathy for it.

"All right old fellow. It is all right," he assures me gently as he rests a hand upon my shoulder. "It is not your fault."

Then whose fault is it?

"Do you want to try to reach the washroom?"

"There is no point. I cannot stop!"

The hand at my shoulder squeezes gently. "Then stop fighting before you come to harm. Please Holmes, distressing yourself will do you no good at all. Calm down."

"I am so sorry."

"It is all right," he assures me gently. "I have seen much worse during the course of my career. Besides, this is my fault; I should have ensured that you were comfortable before you slept."

It hardly matters whether he blames me or not. I cannot remember the last time that something of this nature happened, but I must have been a very young boy. I have no excuse at all, ill or not.

I feel Watson put his arm about me. "Are you all right Holmes?"

I nod without opening my eyes to meet his gaze.

"Come on then, we had best give you a wash and change your clothes."

At least I am wearing a nightshirt. There should not be much damage done to that.

"I truly am dreadfully sorry Holmes," my friend tells me as he escorts me to the washroom and sits me upon the lavatory after (rather needlessly, I fear) lifting its lid. "I shall not let this happen again."

"What is happening to me?"

"You are ill old fellow! Things like this happen sometimes. You were simply too weary to be aware of nature's calling to you, that is all."

I avoid meeting his gaze. I should tell him that there is something wrong, but it is embarrassing and I am not quite sure how to articulate the problem in any case.

My friend undresses me whilst being mindful of my discomfort and modesty. In fact his manner is perfectly reassuring; he is an excellent doctor.

"Let me just clean the floor before the wood becomes stained," he says quietly. "I shall put your clothes in soak in the bath as well. I shan't be a moment."

I should thank him. I will when I am calmer.

"Are you all right if I leave you for a moment?"

"I am not feeling faint," I respond with a shrug. I am aching with fatigue and I am cold, but I am not about to fall or vomit.

"Shout if you need me," he tells me. "You have a good set of lungs, despite the amount of tobacco that you insist on smoking; I shall hear you well enough."

I am all right! I nod and dismiss the chap with a wave of my hand. Once I am alone, I attempt to find something to occupy my mind with, so as not to be tortured with the memories that are insisting upon repeating themselves. I cannot keep the same question from beating in my aching brain like a hammer: Why did this happen?

Watson wastes no time. He seems to be back in an instant with a fresh nightshirt and dressing gown for me. He then fills the washbasin, cleanses me from head to foot (I have been sweating horribly since my first dosage of cocaine) and then dresses me. He is gentle and matter-of-fact, as if he has done this a thousand times before, despite doctors usually having nurses to do this sort of thing for them. Again I begin to apologise.

"Please don't," he begs of me. "I know that you would not do this deliberately old fellow; you can stop apologising. Besides, you did try to warn me that you were in a hurry. I shall be more inclined to listen in future."

"Thank you."

He nods and pats my knee. "Quite all right. Come along then, back to the sofa with you."

The very thought of returning to the settee troubles me. "Supposing it happens again? You have not even given me any clothing to wear under the nightshirt to stop some of the mess!"

"If you become as desperate as that again I shall give you something to use," he informs me firmly. "That is precisely what I should have done this time, when I saw the level of your distress."

I would rather not be treated as an invalid, but if it is that or a repeat performance of what took place in our sitting room moments ago I suppose I have no choice. At least my companion is still treating me with as much dignity as he can.

"Is there anything that I can do for you?" my companion asks once I have been made comfortable and the fire has been tended. "You must be terribly bored... I could read to you, if you would like."

Watson often read to me when I was ill and weary before my hiatus. I missed that terribly - much more than I would have expected - on the last occasion that I was unwell. I missed him more than I could ever have imagined! I smile at him.

"Yes please," I mumble as I pull the rugs closer to me. I want to tell him how I have missed his narratives, but after the harm that my proposition caused this morning I am afraid to speak a word.

He nods and addresses me with a small smile. "Poetry? Shakespeare?"

"Shakespeare." I would have to be ill indeed to want to hear poetry! Though, I must confess, I did read some Browning and a little Keats and Wordsworth during my hiatus, when I was feeling particularly homesick, and imagined that it was Watson who was reading it. It worked for a week or two, but soon wore off with overuse.

His smile broadens. "Of course. Do you have a preference?"

"Surprise me."

He drags his medical bag closer to his chair and rummages in it. Then, with a nod, he withdraws a book from it.

"Do you always carry books with you?"

"Ever since I found that it helps you to settle," he responds as he stands to sit at my ankles on the settee, bringing with him his bag and the book that he has already taken from it. "I carry a little poetry and one or two stories; they often help to soothe a troubled patient. Particularly fretful women and children. I should thank you."

"I would not have thought that you would have time for such things during your rounds." I am not put out, merely surprised by this revelation that this is not special treatment which is reserved just for me; after all, I am Watson's closest friend!

"I am sometimes the only fellow at hand who is able to read and write Holmes. Under those circumstances, I read something and then advise a family member to make up stories or to perhaps sing quietly."

I nod and settle back. Now I understand; it is simply a case of when needs must. That makes perfect sense.

"Now, shall I begin?" he asks as he makes himself comfortable.

I frown at him. "Why are you sitting there? Would you not be better off in your chair?" I do not wish to be seen in the throes of a nightmare - I feel that I have endured quite enough humiliation for one day! Besides, I might lash out and injure the dear chap.

"I want to be close if you need me. I do not want you to vex yourself needlessly old fellow. Now, shall I begin?"

I nod and close my eyes with a quiet sigh. I suppose the doctor knows what he is doing better than I do.

With closed eyes and my heightened imagination (courtesy of the cocaine still coursing through my veins) I can easily picture the scenes depicted in the tale. It takes the briefest of moments for me to become calmer.

When the story reaches its conclusion and I am still awake, my companion asks whether I am in any discomfort. I could easily snap at him - after all, I am aching terribly with fatigue so the answer is quite obvious - but I refrain. Watson did not have to return to care for me any more than he has to stay; if I become difficult, he has every right to send for a different doctor and abandon me in favour of his less ungrateful and stubborn patients.

"No more so than I have been since before you returned," I respond in what I hope to be an airy manner.

He grimaces. "Poor fellow! I wish I could do more for you. I could give you something for your pain, but it would have to be mild and would most likely do no good."

I nod in understanding and sneeze loudly.

"Bless you. I hope that you have not caught a cold, on top of everything else."

If I have, it is my own fault and I tell him as much. "If I become unwell it will due to the many sleepless nights, missed meals and cold and dirty rooms in which I have stayed."

"Hum, and quite probably the upset and overuse of cocaine that I have caused with my fit of temper as well."

I sniff. "That was my fault."

"According to you, everything is!" he shakes his head and rubs a hand across his eyes. "Let us just agree that we were both at fault, that we are both sorry and that, should such a dispute begin again between us, we shall discuss our differences like civilised adults as opposed to storming out without resolving the matter first."

I nod my agreement. "Very wise."

"And now you should rest," the doctor advises me with a pat to my ankle. "Even if you cannot sleep, you should at least attempt to stay quiet, still and relaxed."

That is easier said than done. I am feeling as restless as I am fatigued. All the same, my Boswell is near and I know that I am safe while I lower my guard. I could always rely on Watson.


	11. Self Pity

**Self Pity**

I am terribly bored, frustrated and irritable. Were it not for Watson's presence (not that I wish for him to leave) I would have dosed myself with Morphine long before now and to blazes with the consequences. I want to sleep, to escape this wretched lethargy, exhaustion and pain. It is now dark out and still I am unable to rest at all.

"Are you feeling any different?" my friend asks gently.

How the deuce should I know? I am in too much discomfort to be able to tell!

"Are you feeling worse?"

I shrug and cover my face with a painful and uncooperative arm. "I could not tell you."

"Poor Holmes! Is there anything that I can do?"

I shake my head and attempt to wave him away. He is not having that.

"If you feel well enough, and if I can do nothing else, could I examine you?"

Here we go. I should have been expecting it and I suppose the fellow has been good to have not demanded to be permitted to do so at once. All the same, I am not in the mood for his infernal poking and prodding.

"I would rather not, if you do not mind Watson."

"I do mind!" he snaps back at me. "Holmes, you might have died of that uncharacteristically high dosage. You do not seem to be aware of the danger that you put yourself in!"

"I am drawn to danger," I respond calmly. "I accept it as a part of my work."

"As have I in the course of my career and yours," the fellow returns in that dangerously quiet manner of his. "But facing danger as a consequence of one's profession is hardly on a par with facing it as a consequence of one's stupidity."

What am I supposed to say to that? I know that he speaks the truth. Well... "That is my own affair."

He slams his fist down on something - the coffee table? - and I hear him gasp and mutter an oath.

"No Holmes. No. You are not going to do that."

Do what?

"You are not going to pick and choose what is - and what is not - my affair! You are my friend - my closest, dearest friend - and what you do matters to me. I will not... Cannot..."

I look up at him, curious and concerned, as he falters. "Watson?"

He has covered his eyes with his right hand, a bruise already beginning to form upon it from his slamming it down on the tabletop, and he is shaking with what would appear to be silent sobs.

"Please don't old fellow. I am hardly worth it."

He shakes his head and sniffs. "I cannot lose you again. Once was enough. If only you knew..."

I want to stand, to go to him, and I force my rebellious body to do so somewhat unsteadily. Carefully, awkwardly, I slip my arm about him and rest my head at his shoulder. It is not quite the embrace that I attempted to give to him yesterday, but it will have to suffice.

"Forgive me Watson."

He nods and pats my hand. "You should lie down," he informs me. "Your hands are like ice and your face is far too hot."

I shiver and somehow resist the temptation to press myself closer to my friend for warmth.

"Come on," he says gently as he guides me back to the settee and repositions me upon it. "I do not want you to fall ill, if you have not already."

I grab his hand quickly as he pulls the rugs over me.

"Will you please allow me to tend to you?"

I shake my head. "Not important."

He addresses me with such a glare that I release his hand at once with a mumbled apology. There is so much that my Boswell should know, but there is so very much at stake - our very friendship is hanging in the balance and I know not what to do.

"What is the matter Holmes? I have not seen you behaving like this before."

Should I blame the cocaine? No, I shall simply shrug and not attempt to explain myself at all. To be truthful, I am not entirely sure why I am behaving like this... Is it due to missing the fellow for three years, the guilt that I have felt and continue to feel, the gratitude that I now feel every time that I realise that he has not treated me as I deserve and forsaken me, the anxiety that I feel when I think that I could still lose him or is all of this simply due to the cocaine? Could it be a little of each? That would most assuredly explain my odd behaviour, would it not?

Watson shakes his head and begins his examination. I somehow behave myself and resist almost every urge to bat his hands away. It is not an easy thing for a man to endure.

"Your heartbeat is fast and irregular, no doubt due to the cocaine," my friend informs me at last. "You have a stubbornly high fever - which I should tend to, seeing as it does not seem to be inclined to come down of its own accord - and you really should try to eat something."

If he tells me that I am too thin once more... I dismiss the thought at once, for that reaction most certainly is due to the narcotic. I calm myself and tell my friend that I shall eat in my own good time. I am feeling nauseous again, which I do not tell him as I still have a bucket close to hand if I should need it. Besides, it is hardly cause for concern.

I watch my Boswell leave the room and coil myself upon the settee, pulling the rugs closer to me. I wish that I could sleep and escape for a while, but I am unable to ignore even a quarter of the many protestations of my miserable body! I screw my eyes tightly shut and allow myself to groan.

"Holmes?" Watson is back at my side before I am even aware of his return to the room. "Are you all right?"

I flinch as he cools my brow with a damp cloth and somehow stifle a growl. I am as 'all right' as can be expected, I am sure.

"Can I get you anything?"

I squint at him for a long moment. "A new body would be nice." Preferably one that can survive on air alone and not decide to vomit or otherwise inconvenience me.

"Sorry old fellow; you have to look after the one that you have."

"Pshaw!"

He stops in his work a moment to gaze at me with some annoyance. "Listen here Holmes, I myself would quite like to exchange a leg and shoulder for new ones. It is not possible. One has to make do with what one has."

Sorry Watson.

He resumes his task without another word and I am left feeling as sorry for him as I am for myself.


	12. A Walk in the Park

**A Walk in the Park**

At last I am feeling some improvement, though I still am far from fully recovered. Watson has already reminded me that it has not even been a full day since my senseless 'experiment', as he calls it, with the needle. Weakness and fatigue continue to plague me, often forcing me to rest for extended periods.

I am also all too aware of the heavy atmosphere which is hanging over my Boswell and myself. It would seem that over-indulging in cocaine was not the wisest thing that I have ever done, for my companion would appear to be of the opinion that I did it to spite him. Not that he has said as much, of course.

"We shall take a walk," the fellow decides somewhat brusquely as he tosses me my stick and takes up his own. "I am tired of listening to your complaints of boredom."

I agree readily enough and retrieve my favourite (warmest) muffler from my bedroom before following my companion downstairs to the hall, where Mrs. Hudson helps us into our coats and hands us our hats.

"If you feel too cold, tell me as much right away," my friend cautions me. "I do not want you catching a chill."

I am sure that I would have before now if I was going to do so. "Of course old chap."

He frowns at me from the corner of his eye as we each ensure that we have our gloves. Then we are off out of the door and turning our steps in the direction of Regents Park.

The park is beautiful. The first flowering bulbs of the season are just opening and I point out some of them to my friend. For now, we both are a little more relaxed.

"How are you feeling?" Watson asks as he comes to my side.

Ever the doctor! I take it that he saw the shiver that I was not completely successful in suppressing. "I am all right," I assure the fellow with a smile. A little chilly perhaps, but it is still early in the year. That is to be expected.

"Good," he responds with a smile as he pats my arm. "I am sorry if my fretting annoys you Holmes, but somebody has to."

I nod, for I do understand, and almost immediately give a sneeze. The reaction to the head movement is far from unusual following cocaine usage, but he is all concern. Possibly because I failed to stifle it at all.

"Bless you! Are you becoming too cold?"

Only if you are. "Not at all! Please do stop fretting; it is a pleasant enough day and I am glad to be able to stretch my legs."

"Well... All right then," but he continues to watch me closely from the corner of his eye as I attempt to enjoy myself.

I may have missed the fellow, and I most certainly am dreading his return to his damned practice, but I have not missed the manner in which he frets over my health. I am sure that I have never worried over his health in such a manner! Well... Aside from the occasions when I have required his assistance and therefore had to know that he was fit and able to keep up with me, naturally.

He takes my arm and we resume our walk, but I am becoming weary. I falter in my stride once or twice and then my irregular pulse begins to thrum at the side of my neck and I am all at once feeling weak and faint.

Without a word the doctor leads me to a bench and we sit together, his hand resting at my shoulder as his eyes sweep over my face, which is inexplicably tingling and no doubt rather pale.

"We shall take a moment to rest and then go back," Watson decides as he squeezes my shoulder. "This was a foolish idea. You are not well enough to go out yet."

Nonsense! I am perfectly all right.

"What are you feeling like?"

I shrug. "All right. Really. I am only weary." At least I no longer feel sick and would seem able to maintain my usual level of control over my body. I have not fainted, despite my weakness; that must surely mean that I am improving.

"I suspect that 'weary' may well be an understatement Holmes. You are terribly pale."

"According to you, my complexion is 'sallow' anyhow."

He grimaces. "More so than usual old man. You look dreadful."

I shiver again and Watson draws closer to me. "We should go home."

"We have only just arrived!"

He sniffs quietly and I cast him a glance. The fellow is rubbing at the old wound at his shoulder. Why did he not tell me that he was in pain?

"Perhaps you are right. We should get back," I address him with a smile and touch his hand. It is no warmer than mine. "You are chilly yourself!"

He shrugs and sniffs again. "I was all right until we were seated."

Yes, I have been becoming ever colder since we stopped walking, myself. I haul myself to my feet as quickly as I can without the risk of another fainting spell and then my Boswell has linked his arm through mine and we are heading for home.

We are just turning onto Baker Street when Watson sneezes, causing me to stop in my tracks and stare at him for a moment.

"I hope that you have not caught a cold," I remark, more as something to say than anything else, for I feel quite ridiculous now that I have realised that I have been staring at the fellow with quite obvious concern.

"It was one sneeze," he grumbles rather defensively. "You would assure me that it was nothing to worry about."

I shrug and unwind my muffler from about my neck in order to hand it over. I then go a step further and wrap it about the throat of my friend. "After cocaine or morphine usage, indeed not; you do not indulge."

"Holmes, you must be feeling as chilled as I am at least and more so!" he retorts as he unwinds and hands the muffler back. "You are thin as a wraith and you have been unwell. Besides, it is not far now; I am all right."

I am not convinced at all but I nod and attempt to increase my speed. It is deucedly frustrating to be so laggard, for I am usually so very quick.

"Slow down old fellow!" my friend protests. "Holmes! My leg!"

Now I stop. How stupid of me! "Are you all right Watson?"

He nods and squeezes my arm. "No harm done. Just keep in mind that we are not on a race course."

I smile at him and begin to walk again, this time allowing my companion to set the pace. It is an easy enough pace to maintain, but my head is now feeling heavy. I am done up! And only from walking to the park and back! What the deuce is wrong with me? Where is my stamina, the strong constitution of which I used to boast to Watson? Will I ever be the same?


	13. Being Tended

**Being Tended**

I am not quite sure how I came to manage the stairs. Did Watson carry me? Surely he could not have managed that while his old wounds were hurting him? Why can I not remember? Did I faint?

My friend is tending to me now. I very much doubt that he has left my side for a moment since the deucedly embarrassing fainting spell in the park. He has wrapped me snugly in rugs and is attempting to push something long, smooth and cool into my mouth. A thermometer. Of course.

"Do you think you could slip this under your tongue without biting it now?" the fellow asks. "Your teeth were chattering terribly when I removed your coat."

I turn away quickly before giving a rather explosive sneeze. How I manage to avoid doing so in his face I am not quite sure.

"Bless you. You have caught a cold!"

I do not like that accusatory tone in the slightest. "It is only the cocaine. I am quite all right," I snap with a dismissive wave of my hand and irked glare.

He shrugs and slips the thermometer that he has in his hand beneath my tongue, causing me to glare anew at him. If he believes to have silenced me for two minutes he is sorely mistaken!

The doctor pats my hand and then he positions it beneath the rugs. I must admit that it is rather cold.

"I only wish to make you comfortable old fellow," he retorts in a half-humorous tone. "And to do all that I can for you."

It is true of course. I really should behave myself. I do not want to push my friend away and I hope that the expression with which I address him next tells him as much.

"Are you all right? You look so miserable..."

Perhaps my expressions say more than I would like.

"The time will be up soon old fellow. Just over a minute remaining."

Good! I am beginning to want to sneeze again. Why does the body seem to enjoy choosing the wrong moment?

"Are you all right?"

I do not nod. Instead, I smile.

"Are you sure? You seem rather tense... Do you want to pay a visit?"

I do now! Why the deuce did he have to ask me that? I was all right until he mentioned it! Now, as well as trying to keep myself from sneezing I am all too aware of a much more unpleasant and pressing discomfort. I have no choice. Carefully, I pinch my nose just enough to stop the sneeze while I nod, for if I open my mouth now the reading will be wrong.

"Can it wait? You have about half a minute left and then you can use the washroom."

I am not sure. I feel much the way I did yesterday, when I disgraced myself. I do not wish to find out whether it will be different this time or not. I tense as much as my unresponsive muscles will allow and try to keep still. Half a minute suddenly feels like an eternity.

"No?"

My expression must say it all, because my companion is rummaging in his bag in an instant while he verifies exactly what it is that I need. Then I have a receptacle in place, the rugs are providing me with all the privacy that can be given to me under such circumstances and I am trying very hard not to think too much.

It only seems a moment later when Watson removes the thermometer from my mouth and studies it. In different circumstances the wait would have been an easy one.

"Your temperature is somewhat lower than it should be," he informs me.

"What does that mean?" I ask as I rub at my irksome nose. Yesterday a fever and today... what-ever it is that the opposite is called. But surely an abnormally low body temperature is not a cause for concern?

"More than likely that you are tired. Exhausted in fact. You could do with a good meal as well."

"Be reasonable, I beg of you! I will eat. When I am hungry and not before."

He frowns back at me. "That could be never! You may not realise it Holmes, but you have been starving yourself. I can see the symptoms clearly enough."

"I have not b-been..." I slam my eyes shut and try to hold my breath. It does not work. It is not possible to avoid giving vent to a sternutation indefinitely.

"Bless you. Are you... Bless you! Are you quite... Oh! Bless you again old fellow. Are you all right?"

I nod breathlessly. That has quite winded me! Perhaps Watson was right when he said that I appear to be a little tired.

"Are you quite sure that you have not caught a cold? Your sneezing would seem to be getting worse."

"I am certain. I simply avoided sneezing until you had removed the thermometer from my mouth, that is all. Under the circumstances, it is little wonder that they became rather more violent. Holding the wretched things back often will have that effect."

"Hum. I suppose so Holmes."

We remain in silence for a moment or two and then I carefully remove the receptacle, tidy myself up and stand, tossing aside the rugs.

"What are you doing?"

I gesture in the direction of the washroom. "Is it not obvious?"

Watson holds out his hand, offering to take the offending object in my hand from me. "You should rest old fellow. Let me take care of that."

"You have had to 'take care', as you put it, of far too much already!" I protest quickly. The chap is not my nursemaid any more than Mrs. Hudson is and I will not have him cleaning up behind me while I still have the use of my legs.

I disappear into the washroom and empty and clean the bottle first and then scrub my hands and face second. My flesh is cold and slimy, as if I have been exploring a (relatively) dry storm drain, and I feel utterly disgusting. How could I possibly still be sweating while I am chilled to the very bone?

"Are you feeling all right?" Watson asks carefully as I return to the settee with a weary sigh.

"Yes."

He frowns at me for a long moment. "In that case, you should eat something. What would you like?"

I am not hungry. I am too tired to want food! Why can Watson not understand that?

"Nothing?" he sounds disappointed and... scared? "Well, I shan't force you old fellow. I do wish that you would at least try a bite of something though. I hope that you shall not mind if I eat something?"

I shake my head and sniff. "Of course not. You must be hungry."

He nods and goes off to ask Mrs. Hudson for some refreshment.

The doctor soon returns to my side and settles himself at my feet on the settee without a word. He is warm and my feet are freezing, so I do not ask him to remove himself to his armchair and instead address him with a grateful smile when he permits me to press them against him without a word of protest.

When the food arrives, it is piled high upon his plate and he protests to Mrs. Hudson that he could not possibly manage to eat all of that.

"I am sorry Doctor," the housekeeper responds, "but I have thrown out quite enough food lately. Just eat what you can sir."

Watson tries a forkfull of something as the sitting room door closes and I gaze up at the fellow. He seems to be enjoying it, at least.

"How is it?"

He swallows the mouthful and smiles at me. "It is delicious Holmes. I have missed Mrs. Hudson's cooking."

"So did I, during my travels. Living as a poor man on Mycroft's handouts was far from desirable and my own cooking is barely edible."

Watson's hand touches my leg. "Would you like to try some?"

Before I know it, I am sitting up beside the fellow, sharing his food from off of his plate. It is good and I am surprised to find that I am hungry. Very hungry.

"Perhaps you will begin to feel a little better now," my friend says hopefully as I finally hand back the spoon with which I have been helping myself. "It is little wonder that you are so tired and weak Holmes; you must eat!"

I nod and rest my head at his shoulder, for I do not want to return to a reclining position when I have just filled my stomach. Not yet.

"You are still so cold!" the chap remarks with concern. "I had hoped that the food would give you the energy to raise your temperature at least a little. Do you think a cup of tea would help?"

Would it stay where I choose to put it? I have had nothing but water since yesterday.

Before I give an answer, Watson shakes his head. "Perhaps tea and coffee should be avoided a little longer. I could ask for a hot honeyed water though, if you would like. It would at least be warming."

It would also have more flavour than plain water. I agree readily and close my eyes. "But not until you have eaten your fill old fellow," I insist as an afterthought. Watson does have to keep his own strength up, after all. Besides, I am not about to die of thirst.

I settle back, close my eyes and at last find myself able to relax somewhat. Perhaps I shall be able to get at least some restful sleep now. I just have enough presence of mind to thank my companion before Morpheus claims me.


	14. Finally Talking

**Finally Talking**

I awake alone and cold. That is odd. The fire has gone out and the room is quite dark. Where is Watson? My head does not swim when I get to my feet and my vision is clear, though my mind still seems to be somewhat fogged. I hope that that is simply due to having just awoke.

There is a note on the coffee table, written in Watson's scrawl. He has been summoned to his practice and had not the heart to wake me before he left. I sink into my chair, still staring at his note. I feel strangely lost and hurt and for a moment or two I am not quite sure what I should do with myself.

Deciding that I am feeling much improved, I at last call for a cup of tea and some... What time is it? Some breakfast. I shall take Watson's advice and eat when and as I feel the need. I want him to be pleased if - when - he returns.

While I wait for the breakfast things I wash myself thoroughly and change my clothes. Ah yes! Now I feel much better.

I have just finished eating when my faithful friend returns. His face lights up at the sight of me and he steps inside the room quickly.

"Thank goodness! You are finally looking better," he remarks cheerfully.

My heart sinks; the fellow had might as well have said 'thank God that that is over', for I know only too well that the doctor will not stay if he is not needed. Never the less, I nod and attempt to give him a smile before I lose the battle with my building emotions and lower my gaze to the dregs of my teacup.

"Well... I thought that you were. What is the matter old fellow?"

What can I tell him? I have so much to say. All those promises that I have made to myself as I waited and longed for the reunion between myself and my Boswell, and what has become of them? I am no better than I was before! I said that I would never hurt him again and yet I have actually caused him to shed tears on more than one occasion. Above all, telling him that I am sorry is not good enough; I have to show him and let him know it. Words are ten a penny.

"Holmes? Are you all right?"

I nod and allow my gaze to meet his again. "Do you have time to talk?"

He smiles and takes a seat opposite me. "Is there still tea in the pot?"

"I am afraid not. I shall just ask Mrs. Hudson for more."

We are soon seated facing one another from either side of the hearth as we sip freshly brewed tea and share a batch of Mrs. Hudson's delicious homemade biscuits.

"You did say that you wanted to talk with me," Watson prompts after a moment or two.

I fidget in my armchair and nod. "Please be patient with me old fellow; what I have to say does not come easily."

"That sounds ominous..."

I am not angry with you! Why must you jump to conclusions so? "While I was away, I swore that things would be different when I returned... that I would be different - better than I was..."

"My dear Holmes!"

I blink rapidly and turn my gaze to the fire with a sniff. "If anything, I have been worse than ever. Never before have we fought! Never!"

Before I even know that he has moved, my Boswell has taken my cup from my trembling hands. "Holmes," he says gently as he takes my hand in his. "You are no more or less to blame than I am. I shouted at you! Why are you blaming yourself?"

Because it was my fault! "Why did you shout at me?"

"Well... I over-reacted! I should know you by now."

"Yes, I suppose that you should indeed know by now that I am selfish and that my timing is not always the best."

"Stop that."

Why? It is the truth!

"Holmes, you do not have to keep apologising. I had thought that we had already agreed that we were both in the wrong and that we should move on from it. If all you wish to do is to go over that argument..."

I shake my head. "No, I do not want that at all. I simply wish to understand what went wrong, so that it does not happen again." I would tell him that he means too much to me, but how can I say that when I have abandoned him for three long years? That is something that I shall have to prove to him.

"I was in a hurry to return to my practice and caused you to say something that I did not appreciate overly much," he responds with a shrug of his uninjured shoulder.

Yes, I remember now. I told him that I was lonely, that he must be as well and that it was ridiculous that we were living separately when we can live together so very comfortably. My choice of words were none too delicate either.

"I behaved dreadfully." What more can I say?

"Had I not repeatedly interrupted you, you would have had ample time to consider your words and my feelings would most likely have been spared," he argues. "Now please stop it. What is it that you wish to say?"

I take up my teacup again and swallow the last of its contents. It does little to steady my nerves! Well, I shall simply have to swallow my pride, as well as the tea, and show him my heart. The rest is up to him.

"Watson... I have missed you terribly. I..." Take a deep breath Holmes. "I would like, if you can find it within yourself, for you to move back to Baker Street. I shall always consider this house to be as much your home as it is mine, should you live here or not." And it is not home without him. It never has and never will be.

"What about my practice?"

Sell it! "That is up to you; it is for you to decide what you wish to do and where you wish to live. Perhaps you would prefer not to live here at all."

He meets my gaze solemnly. "I did not say that Holmes."

"I wanted to say, that terrible morning, that I wished for you to think it over for as long as you need and to decide what it is that you would like to do."

He smiles at me. "Thank you Holmes. I shall do that."

I return his smile and then excuse myself and disappear into the washroom. I need a moment or two alone to calm myself. Well, at least my Boswell knows what I have had on my mind now.

When I return to the sitting room, my friend approaches me awkwardly.

"I owe you an apology or two myself old fellow. I have been hard on you."

Hardly that! "Watson..."

"No, listen to me please. I have judged you harshly. Far too harshly. That is why I became so upset and why I shouted at you."

"I deserved it!"

He stares at me for a long moment and then rests his hands upon my shoulders. "You truly believe that."

Of course I do!

He sighs and pulls me in close to him, wrapping his arms about me, and I slowly do the same. It was delayed by two days, but we are finally admitting that we have missed one another in a manner that expresses more than an entire dictionary of words ever could. As my Boswell squeezes me as if he means never to release me again I feel my eyes begin to overflow slightly. Until now I had not even realised that I was becoming tearful!

I hear my friend sniff and realise that he is shaking. Dear old Watson! I squeeze him in turn and then rub at his back.

"What a fool I have been," I hear the fellow whisper.

"It is over now," I assure him, once I have cleared my throat. "We can return to normal... if you wish it."

"I wish it!" he replies quickly. "We can at least go back to the way that things were before... when... when Mary..."

I pull him in close to me again as I realise that the fellow has not just been upset due to my supposed death and sudden return. He is still grieving for Mary, who has not died so very long ago. How could I be so stupid?

"It is all right Watson," I assure him when he all but dissolves into tears. This is not my area, but for my Boswell I shall make an effort. He needs me. "It is all right. Cry if you need to; there is no shame in it."

I know not quite why I said that, but it does sound like the sort of thing that my friend might say to me and it does seem to help, for I feel him relax in my embrace and his sobs become quieter. I rub at his back gently, saying nothing at all unless I am responding to him, until he slowly calms himself of his own accord.

"I am sorry," the fellow says at last, when he relinquishes his hold of me to dry his eyes and blow his nose. "What must you think of me?"

I drag him to the settee and sit down beside him with my hand resting at his arm. "I know that you have had a dreadful time my dear Watson. I would never judge you harshly..."

He at once bursts into tears and I stare at him in alarm. What have I said?

"Are you all right?" I ask as I grip his arm and watch him with building concern. I have known him to become tearful after a nightmare once or twice, but this is not like him at all!

He nods and coughs into his handkerchief.

Tea. He needs some more tea. I hastily pour him another cup and hand it to him.

"Thank you Holmes. I am all right old fellow," he sets aside his cup and blows his nose rather loudly. "Excuse me. I am all right now."

I wrap an arm about him and grip his shoulder as I resume my seat at his side. "It is quite all right. I am sorry if I have upset you."

"No! No, you have done nothing wrong. Do not think that."

I study him carefully. The chap sounds dreadfully hoarse and congested, though that could be due to the tears. Crying is frightfully unpleasant and I hate to do so with an audience because it is so very messy and can leave a fellow feeling so wretched. I hope that he is not emotional due to an impending illness, but there are signs... His eyes have dark circles beneath them and he is rather pale.

"You are done up," I remark, causing him to give a start. "And no wonder my dear Watson! You have been tending to me tirelessly, after all, and at what time were you sent for? It must have been before seven!"

"Now I know that you are more yourself. How did you know that it was so early?"

Because his writing and spelling was worse than the efforts of some of my Irregulars, for one thing. "Because you came back before half past ten and you look quite worn. It was no trivial matter for which you were called, I deduce, or you would have been disgruntled when you returned; therefore you were out early and gone for some time."

He nods and takes up his teacup again.

"You should get some sleep," I advise him. "You are going to give yourself a fever if you go on as you are."

He sniffs and nods again. "I will. Just let me finish my tea old fellow. Please."

"Of course. And then, when you are ready to sleep, I shall play for you. If you would like that."

The smile with which he addresses me speaks volumes. "Yes. Yes, I would like that."

I squeeze his shoulder and return his smile. It is always a pleasure to do something for Watson; he is such a warm, kindly man and he is habitually appreciative of my efforts. Not at all like me! I am a selfish wretch and I have to remind myself to show appreciation for Watson's kindness often.

When my Boswell has finished his tea I prepare the settee for him and then wait for him to ready himself for sleep. He does not take long and all but collapses into his makeshift bed when he returns to the sitting room. Poor old fellow! He has far too little regard for his own health.

I keep my promise and play my violin until I know him to be fast asleep, though the volume of his snores do trouble me. I do hope that he has not caught a cold and that I am fretting for no reason at all. I gently tuck the rugs about him snugly, being careful not to disturb him. This done, I press a hand to his forehead and then his cheek to gauge his temperature and, when I am satisfied that I can do no more, I take to my armchair.

I hope that my dear friend is all right. I must have put a terrible strain upon the poor chap. What can I do for him? I dearly want to make amends.


	15. Blind as a Beetle

**Blind as a Beetle**

I watch my slumbering Boswell from my armchair, moving only to add more fuel to the fire. The fellow is terribly pale. Did he look so ill when I walked into his consulting room? Could I truly have failed to notice? He is thinner than I remember as well, but I suppose that that is to be expected; he gained weight due to his contentment when he married so it would make sense for him to lose weight again in his grief.

Watson moans in his sleep and I hasten to his side. I hover over him, wondering whether I should attempt to comfort him or leave him be. I hardly wish to disturb the dear chap.

"Mary," I hear him whisper. His tone brings a lump to my throat.

I take his hand gently and kneel at his side. I shall say nothing; perhaps he will settle of his own accord if I merely offer him some comfort. I may not wish to wake him, but I cannot bear to ignore him while he seems to be upset either. I wish I could have returned to his side sooner! Perhaps then he would not have suffered quite as much.

The fellow sobs in his sleep and I squeeze his hand. I am here and I shall never desert him again. Never. From now on, we shall do everything together. If he agrees. First he shall have to decide to get rid of his practice, for it is the only barrier that remains between us, but that is something that he must choose to do without any prompting from me.

My first concern is my dear friend. He looks almost as unwell as he did when I met him in the laboratory of Saint Barts Hospital and I want to help him. What does the fellow need? I prescribed work, which will at least keep his mind from his grief, but work cannot help him when it is time for rest.

The fellow mutters something unintelligible and I run my free hand over his brow. Poor Watson! My presence does not seem to be enough. He wants his wife; how can I possibly be a comfort to him?

Eventually, I take to the settee at his side and position his head in my lap. The contact does seem to help and he at last returns to snoring. Thank God! It is then simply a matter of talking to him gently when he begins to fret again and touching his shoulder.

"Holmes?"

I jerk awake. How dare I fall asleep when my Boswell needs me! How frustrating that slumber comes easiest now, when I am required to remain wakeful.

"Holmes... Why am I on your lap?" he asks as he stares up at me with some confusion.

I shall not tell him the truth. Watson will only apologise for troubling me or say something equally ridiculous.

"You seemed to be somewhat uncomfortable and I hoped that this would help. Does it?"

He closes his eyes and nods with a sniff.

"You are feeling unwell."

He stares at me anew. "You could have been a doctor Holmes. You see more than I do."

"Nonsense! I know my Watson. You are congested, you are pale, you have dark circles beneath your eyes - which you closed when you nodded, which suggests a headache - and your nose looks a little redder than it should. Need I go on?"

He groans. "No."

I pat his shoulder lightly. "Let me find your bag and get you something for your head. Is there anything else that you need, aside from water?"

"Not at the moment, thank you. But how are you feeling?"

How the fellow can fret over me when he is unwell is beyond me! "I am quite all right, I assure you; I did tell you that I would be as right as rain once the cocaine wore off. You are my main concern at this moment."

With that, I call to Mrs. Hudson for drinking water (and some strong coffee) and fetch over the doctor's bag from inside the door. While we wait for the water, I insist upon taking Watson's temperature, which I am relieved to find is normal. Hopefully, he is simply fagged and has not caught anything serious.

"Aside from the headache, what are you feeling like?" I ask as I watch him massage his temples.

"Congested, as if I am catching a chill," he responds with a poorly-concealed shiver. He is also cold then.

"Nausea?"

"No, nothing like that. I am only tired Holmes."

Perhaps, but I often feel sick when I have not had enough sleep. "Good. In that case, you should have a headache powder and some drinking water and then try to sleep again."

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "I am not sure that I could stand it. I think I would prefer to take a walk."

I would much prefer for him to stay here, in the warm. "If you have caught a cold you should..."

"Benefit from some light exercise," he interrupts. "Besides, I shall dress warmly. Are you coming?"

Yes! I shall want to know that he is all right. "First, I shall have some coffee while you take a headache powder. Then we shall see."

He smiles at me. "If you would take half the amount of care that you give to me of yourself Holmes..."

I hide a smirk. The fellow is no better than I am! "I give myself enough consideration to get by. Ah! Come in Mrs. Hudson and just set the tray down anywhere. Thank you."

Watson swallows the headache powder readily enough and then drinks some of the water gratefully while I enjoy the coffee. It clears my sleepy brain beautifully.

I have scarcely finished my second coffee when my Boswell announces that he is much improved and is ready for a trudge if I am. Of course I am! Our walk was cut short just as I was enjoying myself yesterday and I am not feeling the least unwell. However, I do wish that my friend would stay indoors. Well, I shall see that we are not outside for long even if I have to carry or drag the fellow home.

Things are going to be different this time! I select a muffler for myself from my wardrobe and hand Watson my favoured one. I am not going to have the fellow becoming any worse.

The chill in the air does not help my dear friend to convince me that he is all right. He is shivering even before we have left Baker Street and he is sniffling and sneezing so frequently that his handkerchief remains in his hand, as opposed to in its usual place up his sleeve.

"Do you wish to turn back?"

"No."

"You are unwell, my dear Watson."

He glares at me for a moment and then shakes his head. "I might be able to sleep if I could only wear myself out enough first."

I almost offer to give the poor chap some morphine when we get home, but I know that he would refuse it. What can I do?

"My dear Watson, I wish that I could help you."

The fellow smiles brightly at me, as if I have presented him with a generous gift, and pats my arm. Just knowing that I care would seem to be enough.

We stroll Regents Park at a leisurely pace. My Boswell is clearly all but spent, for his steps are slow and his injured leg is dragging terribly. Were it not for the fellow's pride I would be sorely tempted to carry him. Instead, I shorten my stride and pause to admire the beauty of early spring frequently with my companion; carefully ignoring his weakness and fatigue. Never the less, I watch him closely and ensure that I shall be ready to catch or steady him should he collapse.

It is with relief that I agree when Watson decides that we have had enough. There are clouds looming, obscuring the sun as it sinks lower and causing the hour to feel much later than it is. I am shivering, as I am missing my thicker and longer muffler, and I suspect that it is for that reason that my friend wishes to go home; he appears to be less than enthusiastic. I do know how he feels - there is nothing more unpleasant or frustrating as being exhausted yet unable to find rest. Somehow, I must find a way to help the dear chap.


	16. Fear for a Friend

**Fear for a Friend**

I take one look at Watson as I half-drag him into the hall and reach a decision. He cannot possibly climb the stairs, so I lift him into my arms and carry him. The fellow does not even give a word of protest and that troubles - frightens - me. It is this concern and alarm that enables me to manage the stairs while bearing him in my arms, for it would not be an easy task were I in perfect health. I hasten my ill friend into the sitting room to prepare him for bed before the fire. Thank God that he has left an overnight bag here in anticipation of my needing care.

Poor Watson! He is shivering violently and I can see how exhausted he is. I would have a good mind to shout at him, to tell him just how foolish he has been, but I cannot. I shall have a word when he has improved and not before.

"Come along old fellow," is all that I say as I again lift him into my arms.

My Boswell is quickly put to bed in my room, wrapped in thick, warm rugs and made as comfortable as I can manage, but there is no hearth and he is still shivering vigorously. Not knowing what else to do, I quickly throw myself into a nightshirt of my own and scramble into bed behind him, wrapping my arms about his chest and pressing myself close to his back. I feel the fellow jerk with a mighty sneeze.

"Are you all right?"

"I think so Holmes... But you should keep your distance. You have not been well yourself, lately."

Utter nonsense! "I am quite accustomed to cold symptoms," and much worse besides. "I shall be all right."

"That is quite beside the point old fellow."

"No, it is not. Now, do please try to sleep. You must rest. I shall be here should you need me."

"But..." he yawns loudly and I smile.

"That is it. Sleep. Rest. You are by no means alone."

I might be going a little too far but, as I am unable to play while I am employing myself as hot water bottle, I begin to softly hum a piece of music which I composed myself for the fellow. As I gain confidence, I add words to the notes - nothing special; simply words of comfort and reassurance. The sentences neither fit together nor rhyme, but they do seem to be of help to my ill friend. My song continues long after the doctor begins to snore and even after my throat becomes uncomfortable. I want the dear chap to rest as well as possible, unhindered by his grief.

This time, I do not sleep. Even with me pressed close to his back, my friend's shivers remain violent and persistent. He also starts to cough between snores and I listen with regret, not knowing what to do. The fellow is already propped up against the pillows and lying on his side; what more can I do for him?

I know not how long we have remained here when my Boswell's snores cease abruptly and he gives a tremendous sneeze.

"Oh..."

I hear the fellow sniffle miserably but I remain still and quiet. He might return to sleep if I leave him alone.

"Holmes? Are you awake?"

The poor fellow sounds even worse than he did when he took to the bed! I suppose that it is only natural for him to sound worse though - his throat is more than likely very dry and sore from all the snoring.

"Yes Watson. How are you?"

Another groan. "Thirsty. And I would quite like to pay a visit, if I may."

I tug the chamber pot from beneath my bed quite pointedly and then inform him that I shall get him some fresh drinking water before leaving the room. The washroom is even colder than my bedroom, what with the tiles, and I want him to be kept as warm as possible. Besides, I doubt that his poor leg could take his weight after the walk that he forced upon it.

When I return with the water, my friend is sitting at the end of the bed, huddled miserably in the rugs. I pour him a glass, assist him in drinking from it, and then take the used pot.

"I am sorry Holmes..."

"Not at all," I respond quickly. "I have to go anyway."

He grimaces. "All the same..."

"You would do the same for me and we both know it well enough. Calm yourself Watson. Now, if you would be so good as to excuse me, I shall be but a moment."

The fellow has not moved when I return. He is clearly still feeling cold and his misery is plain to see. I sit down at his side on the bed and pull him in close to me. More than anything, I want him to know that he is not alone - something that I am willing to bet had never even crossed the minds of his wretched servants. I always did think that my Boswell was too lenient with them and made far too many allowances for them, for they have never seemed to look after him or his wife adequately.

"How are you feeling?"

He sniffs and gives a shiver. "Better. With you here."

Dear old Watson! I squeeze his shoulder and rest my cheek at his temple. "I would never willingly abandon you. I never wanted to."

"I know. I know that Holmes. Just... Just stay now. Please stay."

I chuckle quietly. "Where could I go, even if I wished to leave you? And do you honestly believe that I would not be lonely without you?" I could - I have - been lonely in a crowd without my Boswell. Even my own brother could not give me the comfort or support that Watson does. Not that Mycroft is a very comforting companion to anyone...

"Are you all right Holmes?" the fellow asks suddenly. "You are very quiet."

I shrug and give his shoulder another gentle squeeze. "I thought that you might prefer peace and quiet. I can see that you are as tired as you are unwell."

"No. I have had a lot of quiet Holmes. Too much."

And so I begin to talk softly. I tell him of the adventures that we shall soon have together and promise much. He needs something to look forward to and I know how he loves excitement.

"If a case were to arrive now..." he begins, only to be interrupted by a fit of coughing.

I shake my head and rub at his back. "That would be no good; you need rest first. When you - nay, when we are both quite well, we shall work all the cases we could ever want. We shall be constantly busy and have endless excitement. If you would join me."

"Nothing would please me more," he assures me with another round of coughing.

Good! "I am glad to hear you say that. I would be lost without my Boswell. Now... lunch. You must be hungry."

He shakes his head and presses himself closer to my side with a sniffle. Now I am worried! After a long trudge in the cold he should be starving, weary or not, and he should have had enough sleep to be able to feel the pangs by now.

"Are you feeling worse?" I ask with concern as I again press my cheek to his temple. It does feel a little warmer than perhaps it should and I quickly rest my hand at his forehead. Oh God! He is quite hot.

He brushes my hand away. "I would feel hot. I have been coughing," he retorts as if reading my mind.

"You should be feeling hungry as well. What would you like? Some fruit, perhaps? That is not filling and it is very good for you."

"I would rather not."

I press myself closer to him protectively. If only I could do something! Watson would know the best action to take, while I am very much in the dark.

"Soup?"

"No Holmes. I am not hungry. My throat is very sore and I have no appetite. Please, do not go on so."

I pat his arm and apologise. When I feel ill, I do not like to be bullied and nagged either and I admit as much.

"I simply do not know what to do for you old fellow. What would you do, if I was so unwell?"

He shrugs. "Keep you warm and see that you at least have plenty to drink, I suppose."

"Are you still thirsty? You did say that your throat was sore."

He nods and then goes into a fit of sneezes that sound grating and painful. I hold him close until the sternutations come to an end and then pour some more water into his glass.

"Thank you."

"Quite all right Watson. Here, let me help; I can see that you are shivering rather violently. I think you should get back in bed when you have drank your fill, if you have no further requirements."

"I am not hungry."

That does trouble me deeply. Perhaps I should send for a doctor.

"I know; you have already told me as much. Right. Well, if you need or want nothing else, you should get some rest."

I take his empty glass away and then make him comfortable once more. I then return to sprawling behind him, keeping myself pressed close to his back with my arms about him in an effort to dispel his chills. I wish I could do more! I have never enjoyed watching my fellow man suffer - especially when the man in question is kind, compassionate Watson.

"Are you sure that you wish to stay with me?"

"If you have no objections," I respond without thinking. Why the deuce did I say that? I should never invite him to object under such circumstances! "And if there is nothing more that I can do. I do so want to help you to feel better."

"You are. Really you are. Only... you must be terribly bored..."

Bored! "Humph!"

"No?"

"No. I am not bored." After three years of separation, I am content just to be near my friend again. I am not quite sure how best to articulate how I feel, however, so I say nothing on the subject at all. All that Watson needs to know is that I am not bored in any case, surely?

"If you are quite sure."

I squeeze his arm. "If I did not wish to be here, I would not stay. Besides, I rather enjoy entertaining you."

It is the truth as well. I have longed to see him smile, to hear his laughter, for years. I hope that I shall do so soon. Real smiles and laughter, rather than the brave attempts of a man in pain. If I can only help him to once again become his old self, I shall be delighted.


End file.
